


all the things yet to come

by mysteriesofloves



Category: Gossip Girl (TV 2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Rewrite, F/M, Fix-It, Getting Back Together, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, minor serenate obviously because i’m me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysteriesofloves/pseuds/mysteriesofloves
Summary: This was never a game for Dan. Blair didn’t know what to do with that.Or the one where Dan writes a play.
Relationships: Dan Humphrey/Blair Waldorf
Comments: 36
Kudos: 275





	1. false god

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on this fic for over a month now and I’m glad to be getting at least the first chapter out there! 
> 
> Post Season 5 Finale AU - Blair doesn’t go to Monte Carlo, Dan writes a play in Rome. It’s my fic and I get to cherry-pick the canon I use. (And anyway, all that other stuff was totally out of character).

He thinks he sees her in Rome. A wisp of brown hair around a corner, heels clicking on cobblestone. He follows her, thinks of calling out her name. 

But it’s only an apparition. 

Dan spends his days hungover on the terrace, with a blank document open on his laptop in front of him. He misses the way his typewriter feels on the pads of his fingers, a little rusted, like you have to work for it. 

By mid day he’s restless enough to leave the house, strolling through the piazzas. He wanders into bookstores, crammed and familiar smelling, flips through great novels like the ones he’ll never write. 

He runs his fingers along the ragged spines, the worn pages, trying to extract inspiration, but coming up empty. His thoughts always drift back to the same place. 

_It’s over,_ he tells himself. _Stop wasting your words on it._

Although there aren’t many words left to waste.

His nights are all the same, spent in sweaty clubs where he stumbles clumsily through the language. He drinks and smokes and drinks some more, until the person he sees in the reflection of the fountains is someone he doesn’t recognize. 

He doesn’t kiss back any of the people who kiss him. He has sex once, in a grimy, graffitied bathroom stall, and when he comes he gasps that name, the name, and the woman pressed against him doesn’t seem to mind. 

The first time he calls her, it’s to say she made a mistake, and he gets cut off by the tone. The second time he calls her, it’s to say he’s sorry, and he gets cut off by the tone. The third time is to apologize for calling the first and second times. He leaves enough messages to forget what he says in most of them. He wants to call her when he’s sober, but he hardly ever is. 

On the eighth or ninth call he knows he says, _I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it._ He gets cut off by the tone. 

When he closes his eyes, it’s like he’s back in Brooklyn, the street lamps and neon signs illuminating the night. He pictures the puddles of rain on the sidewalks, the way the lights in the windows go out one by one like blowing out candles, her voice on the other end of the phone, her shoes discarded next to his couch, her smile. 

He’d waited for her through the glitz and glamour of Louis, the pain and torment of Chuck. Secretly, he’d thought it would pass, her love for them, that it wasn’t all hopeless. And for a moment it became true. But that’s all it was, a moment. He was the one she was passing through.

He wakes up in the middle of the night and grabs his laptop. 

He does his best writing when he’s drunk. Well, he does his most writing when he’s drunk. And after so long staring at a blank page, a blank document, most is the best he can ask for. 

He does his most honest writing when he’s drunk. But honest is not always good. He’s learned that the hard way. 

It comes out of him like a bad crash, like something he needs to expel from his body. 

Maybe this is it, maybe he’s getting rid of her. 

He knows that’s not true, not when the last lines spill out, like wine, like blood, like a stain you can’t get out. 

He does see her in Paris. 

He wakes up early one morning, prepared to take the train to Milan for the day, and takes an eleven hour detour instead. He watches her from afar in the Musee D’Orsay. 

He goes back that night, not bothering to unpack his bags. By the time the sun comes back up, Dan’s room is a mess of loose leaves, his hands ink-stained, his eyes dried out from staring at the glow of his laptop screen. He steps out onto the terrace with a cup of coffee. The wind is thick, and his mind is clearer than it had been the whole summer.

He calls Georgina, who’s been God knows where the last two months. 

* * *

She thinks she sees him in Paris. 

Behind Carpeaux’s _Ugolino_ , the cut of that jawline, covered in familiar scruff. Humidity stricken hair, pursed lips.

She freezes. Amidst the crowds of people around her, the click of her footsteps still seem to echo. By the time she makes it there, he’s gone. 

_But he was never really there_ , she thinks.

She traces around to Préault’s _Ophelia_ , stares into her open bronze mouth. There’s something sensual about it, she thinks in passing, the waves swathed around her like sheets. Peaceful. She looks peaceful in her demise.

She listens to all his messages, over and over again. She’s always loved his drunk voice, how he goes from blunt to saccharine. She can imagine his brows knitted, lips pursed. Sometimes, she closes her eyes and pretends to not focus on the words he’s saying. Pretends she’s back in an elevator, the backseat of a cab, that awful couch in Brooklyn. 

On the eleventh call he says _I came to Paris to find you, and I did. Fuck, Blair, I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it._

She deletes all his messages. She doesn’t listen to any new ones. She throws herself deep into her work, hoping to drown.

And it really does feel like she’s drowning, the stacks of paper, the endless calls and early morning meetings. She sticks pins in mannequins like they’re voodoo dolls, although she’s starting to feel like the one who’s cursed. 

Narrow eyes watch her from her feet. A snake coils itself up her legs, twisting and turning until it’s scales are her skin. It waits at her chest, waits to attack, waits for her to make any sudden movement. But then she realizes it’s not the one waiting. She is. _You always bet against me,_ it whispers, it’s forked tongue in her ear.

She wakes in a fit, gasping for air.

She calls Serena periodically, or Serena calls her, away herself on some sunny beach somewhere with Carter Baizen, of all people. 

When she first told her, Blair had a protest at the ready, but swallowed it, knowing it would be futile. Serena had always been good at forgiving. 

She still prays sometimes, whenever she comes across a church and has the time. She sits in the suffocating box, holding her breath. _It’s been a year since my last confession._

She stays silent for a long moment. 

_I can’t count all the sins I’ve committed in that time. I think I’d set on fire if I did._

* * *

Georgina meets him for coffee, considerably tanned and thoroughly disinterested. 

“Dan, this is a _play_.” Georgina says, in the same voice she would use to talk to Milo. “You wanted to write a book. You came here to write a book.”

“If I wanted to write a book, I would’ve written a fucking book.” He doesn’t know why he’s so annoyed. Too much sun, maybe. He’s restless.

“ _O-kay_ ,” Georgina flips through the pages, hardly skimming it, almost only using it as a fan. “I don’t know what you want me to do with this, Sondheim.”

Dan doesn’t really know either.

“It doesn’t matter. You can throw it away for all I care.” He swats a mosquito away. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” 

Georgina raises her eyebrows.

“So soon? We haven’t even had any fun yet.” 

He looks at her straight, sweat gathering on his forehead, his lip, back of his neck, fucking everywhere. 

“I want to go home.”

“So much for an idyllic Italian summer,” she puts her sunglasses back on, standing. “I’ll get back to you on this.” 

* * *

She stays in Paris through September, for Fashion Week, on the front lines of the company’s collapse. 

Serena calls the first week, drunk and pleading through tears after Carter leaves her alone in a town where she doesn’t speak the language. Blair’s bags are hardly unpacked, and she tells her she’ll take the first flight there. 

She’s more than a little relieved when Serena calls back hours later, telling her Nate was on his way. 

Blair goes home the first week of October, stuffing her bags full of delicacies, brand new couture, and an insurmountable slew of failures. 

She keeps it together through the delay at the airport, through all eight hours of the flight, through the ride back to the penthouse. 

She drops her bags in the foyer. Eleanor sits on her couch, in her home, peering over her glasses. She looks like a statue, her face unmoving, unchanging from its state of disappointment.

Blair crumbles where she stands. 

* * *

It’s the end of August, and a pile of garbage smokes on the side of the street. The heat is languid, the overbearing sounds of traffic, honks and sirens and indistinct yells, contrast starkly to the trickling of canals, the wind through the grapevines. 

He thought that being home would make this better, whatever this is, having an ocean between them. But every corner of this city, every skyscraper and taxicab and street sign and dingy alley reminds him of her.

Brooklyn’s no better, all the restaurants they ordered take out from, all the street lamps he’d kissed her under, the couch in his own home with a dent the size of her like a stab to his heart. 

He picks up a cappuccino from the shop across the loft, not nearly as bitter as the ones he’s been drinking all summer, and a pack of cigarettes, a bad habit from long nights he meant to kick when he came back to the city. Georgina had mailed him back the rough draft of the play, and he didn’t think he could get past the first page, with _This is juicy!_ written in glaring red marker, without something to take the edge off. 

Almost every passage has some underline, circle, or strike through, all done in nauseating neon gel pens. They are, surprisingly, somewhat helpful notes, only half of which he actually takes into account. He mails her back another copy, this time with a note attached reading: _Send this to a real editor please._

She does, and he continues to rework the script until his hands are cramped and he’s got more smoke and whiskey than blood in his body. He feels awfully cliché, and then catches himself, hears that poignant little voice in his head that sounds like Blair, _It’s not cliché, it’s classic._

September brings Nate, warm eyes clouded by dark circles, collapsing on his couch and begging for a drink. He mumbles something about Serena and Saint Lucia, about the Spectator and stock, about _Dude, I fucking wish we were kids again._

Dan changes out of his rumpled, smoke-smelling clothes, shaves, and comes out of the bathroom suggesting that they go out, get as drunk as they physically can, do as many stupid things in one night as possible. But he finds Nate fast asleep, snoring slightly, his hair fallen in his face. Dan covers him with a blanket, something that still smells like his dad, and takes a quiet seat in the armchair across from him. He drinks by himself instead, one cold craft beer after another, until he realizes he hasn’t gotten much sleep himself recently. 

Nate stirs in his sleep, turning his head to the other side, his cheek red and marked from the couch. He looks so young, Dan thinks, the way he looked when they were teenagers, tired out from a long game or a long night. _I fucking wish we were kids again._ He’d said _we_ , but he hadn’t really meant _him_. Dan didn’t know him, didn’t know them, when they were kids. Maybe that was the problem all along. He hadn’t been there for the good stuff, made it just in time for their worlds to fall to shit. Maybe that was what kept them together, what kept him apart. 

But he humours himself, just for a moment. Maybe Nate had meant him, had meant _kids_ as in _kids who were never really kids_. Dan thinks about the girl of his dreams, the girl with the glass castle and her long, blonde hair she let down for him, so he could take her from her life, take her somewhere better, only for her to keep going back. The girl who the boy in front of him had just picked up from the beach, washed up in the water. Dan thinks about the girl he loves who he was never supposed to love, not at all. The girl who was perfectly put together until he looked at her in the right light, saw through the cracks in her porcelain skin and let her break into pieces in his hands and helped put her back together. She hated him until she didn’t. He’s about to fall asleep when he thinks, maybe she never really loved him either, maybe it was something in the middle, maybe she would always resent him for seeing right through her.

He wakes in the morning to a loud, obnoxious knock. The sun streams bright through the windows and Nate is still asleep, curled up on his side. Dan’s neck is too stiff to even turn, and he hits Nate’s feet to wake him on the way to the door. 

Georgina sips loudly on an iced coffee, looking up at him expectantly. Her bracelets clink as she shakes her drink, moving the straw around, making her way into the loft without a word. 

Nate rubs at his eyes groggily, not fully awake yet. 

“ _Aw_ ,” Georgina exclaims. “Aren’t you adorable?” 

She turns to Dan.

“Did you tucker him out?”

He rolls his eyes, moving past her to shake Nate awake. Nate blinks up at him, then around the room, then at Georgina.

“What the fuck? How long have I been asleep?”

Dan shakes his head, waves a dismissive hand in Georgina’s direction.

“She’s just - she’s helping me with something I’m writing.”

“I’m his agent,” Georgina chimes. “And his editor. And if I get lucky his -“ 

“Would you go sit down over there and be quiet?”

Georgina ignores him, finishing up the last sips of her coffee. 

“Oh yeah,” Nate says, running a hand through his hair, trying to get it to lay flat. “How’s the writing going? Got anything good?” 

Dan makes a noncommittal noise, folding back up the blanket Nate was using. 

“You’ll give me the first scoop on it though, right? For the Spectator?”

“It’s, uh, not that kind of writing.”

Nate looks at him curiously, then down at his phone, the glowing numbers making him jump. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna be late. I’ll call you tonight and you’ll tell me about it, yeah?”

Nate leaves without much of a goodbye, avoiding eye contact with Georgina, who perches like a gargoyle on the armchair. 

“Now that we’ve brought the IQ of the room back up, let’s discuss business.”

Georgina pulls the final copy of the play from her bag, placing it on the coffee table. 

“I have always loved how artlessly unsubtle you are.”

Dan rubs his hand over his face, drops onto the couch. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Please, Dan, all of Manhattan knows you were the consort to the ex princess of Monaco.”

He looks at her straight, too drawn out for this. 

“Are we doing anything with this or not?”

“I’ve been calling my people, seeing what I can do about it getting picked up for production.” 

“Great, it’ll be performed by a cult’s community theatre program.”

She leaves, Dan waving her out the door while she tries to goad him into _giving her a thank you for her hard work._ Nate doesn’t call that night, or the next, or the next after that. Dan thinks uncharitably that he never meant him. None of them did.

* * *

Eleanor has never gotten angry at her. She doesn’t yell, doesn’t slam doors, doesn’t do any of the things she’s seen Lily do, heard Lily say, when she fights with Serena. 

It’s always been that steel cut glare, that imperceptible frown. The same look when the dresses she made for Blair stopped zipping up all the way. The same look now, watching Blair in the kitchen. 

“Amado says he can clean us up for a show by the end of the year,” she says, pretending to read the morning paper. Blair smiles tight-lipped in her direction, drops a sugar cube in her cup of tea.

“I told him to just hold off until Fashion Week in March but he thinks we can still move in on the spring market.”

Blair brings her cup to her lips, lets it burn her tongue so she doesn’t speak. 

“You’ve hardly left your room. I’ve spoken to Serena more than my own daughter in the past week.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Blair challenges. “I thought you wouldn’t want to speak to me.”

Eleanor clicks her tongue, a little _Tsk_ that tells Blair she’ll need something stronger than tea for the rest of this conversation. 

“I feel like I don’t even know you anymore,” Eleanor says, trying for sincere. “Where is Charles?”

Blair closes her eyes, speaks carefully. 

“God knows, Mother. God and Gossip Girl. You can check with her if you really want to know.”

“And the other one? Daniel? What happened to him?”

“I - we’re not together.”

The click again. _Tsk_. Blair makes her way to the stairs. 

“You never did know what was good for you.”

Blair scoffs, her own tell. Hand-me-down passive aggression. 

“Like you ever thought he was good enough.”

Eleanor flips the page, finger to tongue to paper. 

“I won’t have my daughter laying around in bed all day.”

Blair stops, turns on her heel at the first step.

“What am I supposed to do then?” She holds onto the bannister, less edge and more pleading in her voice. She feels so small. 

Eleanor looks up at her from across the room, over her glasses, sizing her up. 

“Get a job, Blair.”

She steps out of the car into the frigid October night, the sidewalk glittering under the city lights from the day’s rainfall. The leaves have browned, wet and crumpling under the click of her heels. The mechanical whir of the old elevator heightens the beating of her heart, the echoing of her steps in the familiar, bleak hallway like blood pumping in her ears. She knocks soft at first, then harder when there’s no answer. A muffled _It’s open_ comes from inside. 

The warmth shocks her a little, after how cold the air was outside. The lights are all on, golden illumination, but the living room is empty. She makes her way through the loft, finding him in his bedroom at his desk. He scratches at the stubble on his chin, domestic and disheveled, then looks up. 

“Hi,” she says, wishing she didn’t sound so meek. 

He blinks at her, his jaw tense. 

“Serena said you were back.”

There’s a drawn out silence. She watches his fists tense up on the desk. 

“How was Rome?”

He lets out something that might be a laugh. 

“Fine, it was -“

“Did you really come to Paris?” 

He pauses, then nods slowly. 

“How did you know I’d be there? At the museum?”

“I didn’t,”

He hasn’t gotten up. She feels awfully exposed just standing there.

“I didn’t think about it. I just waited around and then there you were.”

“We’re not together,” Blair says hurriedly. “Me and -“

“I know,” he says. “Serena told me.”

“You’ve been talking to Serena a lot then?”

Dan sighs, shakes his head.

“I’m sorry -“

“You know she’s been with Nate.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry. About everything, all of it, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Blair,” he says, and the worst part is he sounds like he means it. “That’s just how this works. You wait for him and I wait for you.”

Blair’s hand tightens around the handle of her bag. 

“I don’t know what to say.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything left to say.”

And she should turn around now, walk out the door and not look back. Deem this another one of her failures. She should leave. 

But instead she drops her bag on the floor.

Leaving was always Serena’s thing. Blair was never very good at it.

She braces her hands on his shoulders, swinging a leg around him, straddling herself in his lap. She kisses him, self-assuredly, knowing he’ll kiss her back. And he does. 

He grips the back of her neck, the groan from the back of his throat vibrating between them. He tastes stale and sour, but he smells like himself. She runs her hands over the rough stubble of his cheeks, over and over, enough to leave the pads of her fingers raw. 

He picks her up, her legs wrapping naturally around his waist, clicking into place. She moans into him when he sets her down on the bed, overwhelmed by the puff of the duvet around her, his hands dragging down her stockings, all of him. 

She wants him to be angry. That’s why she does it. She wants him to hurt her the way she hurt him. 

She’s gotten too used to that. The back and forth. This was never a game for Dan. Blair didn’t know what to do with that. 

His fingertips press into the skin of her legs hard enough to leave an indent, like if he lets go she’ll disappear, he’ll lose his grasp and she’ll leave again. 

He’s relentless, drilling into her while she trembles around him. She comes three times, and he watches her, looks her straight in the eyes but doesn’t kiss her, holding his mouth just out of reach. There’s a pit in her stomach, guilt or shame or just knowing. She did this. She kissed him first, tonight and all those times before.

She got him into this. But he’s still here. 

Maybe that was his way of hurting her. 

He rolls off her, exhausted, the sounds of their heavy breathing suddenly deafening. Her dress is still half zipped, pulled away from her neck and pushed up around her waist. He pulls his briefs back on, wraps himself in the blanket despite the heat emanating between them. When she curls around him, she knows he’ll lift his arm, let her rest on his chest, let her in. 

* * *

As he dozes off, he thinks sleepily that she won’t be there when he wakes up. It doesn’t make it hurt any less when she isn’t. 


	2. dark night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was so afraid back then, that she would fall for him and it would ruin her life. And then she did, and it didn’t, but she ruined it anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots more pretentious prose and enough drama to fill like three episodes. @ GG writers, let me at the reboot.

Her heart stops when Chuck’s name lights up her phone. She clicks it off, sitting up slowly and grappling to zip up her dress. 

She takes careful steps through the loft, the sheets ruffling in the room behind her. He’s called her three times in the moments it’s taken for her to get to the door, moving to slide it open. 

She picks up after the first ring when she sees that it’s Serena.

“It’s Nate,” Serena chokes out. “They just came and arrested him and I don’t know what’s going on, B -“

Blair stops cold. She can hear a groan come from the bedroom. 

“They just took him, Blair, I need you -“

“Oh,” Dan says from behind her, relief flooding his voice. “You’re here.”

She turns slowly, phone still pressed to her ear. 

“We’re on our way, Serena.”

They pile into a cab, Blair letting Dan tell the driver the directions to the precinct. She repeats what Serena told her over and over, even though he doesn’t ask, if only to make sense of it, if only to not focus on the fact that she was leaving. 

Dan keeps his eyes trained out the foggy window, daylight spreading over the cloud-covered city, his fists clenched in his lap. Their knees bump as they go over a pothole and she looks up at him, notices the blotchy red patches forming on his neck. Instinctively, she touches her own neck, her fingers coming away like an electric shock when she feels the tender spots. She hadn’t worn a coat last night, just a thick cotton cardigan, but she’d left a scarf in her bag that she wraps around her neck. It clashes horrendously with her outfit, but it covers the bruises blotting her skin. 

The wind picks up as they get out onto the curb, Dan sticking his hands in his pockets, pulling his coat around him tighter. Serena stands at the base of the concrete steps, the back of her tousled blonde hair turned towards them. When Blair calls out, she turns, and Blair stops short. 

He was there, of course he was there, he had been the one calling her in the first place. She feels Dan slow to a stop next to her. 

Confusion, a little curiosity, passes over Serena imperceptibly, before it’s replaced with distress. Her arms come around Blair, her tears smearing wet across Blair’s cheek. 

“What’s going on?” Blair asks, pulling Serena off of her but not moving her gaze away. 

“They’re saying he doctored his earnings reports,” Chuck says, and although she can’t see him, his glare cuts straight through Serena. “They picked him up outside the Empire before he could get into his car.”

Serena hiccups, her breath a little sour, mascara clumps gathered around her eyes. This is second nature to Blair, patchy foundation and sniffles. She used to think Serena would never grow up, would spend the rest of her life uncontrollable. That her and Nate would spend the rest of their lives bailing her out, pulling her in, bringing her back.

They were the same, her and Nate, they always loved control. 

“This isn’t like him,” Serena says, “I don’t understand why he’d do it.” 

“You _wouldn’t_ understand,” Blair snaps. “No one ever expected anything of you.” 

Serena lowers her hands, crossing her arms and taking a seat on the steps. She had become accustomed to Blair’s cruelness. She was always better at forgiving. 

“Can we see him?” Blair says, finally looking up at Chuck.

“We’re not family,” Chuck says, and a cold wind blows over all of them. “His father and his lawyer are in there now.”

Serena buries her face in her hands, trembling.

“I’m seeing what I can do,” Chuck says, stepping off the stairs, holding up his phone. Then lowers his voice, “What’re you doing with him?”

“That should be the least of your worries,” Blair says. “That phone shouldn’t leave your ear until Nate is out.” 

Chuck’s hand comes upon her arm, like an ice bath, sending shivers down her spine. One touch, and it feels like months of recovery, rebuilding, rediscovering, could all come crumbling down. 

“Blair,” she hears from behind her, turning to see Dan a few feet away, beckoning her over. She feels Chuck’s hand tense, like he’s going to hold her back by the fabric of her sleeve. But she moves away from him, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. 

When she steps in front of Dan expectantly, she remains quiet, waiting. But he says nothing, instead looking away from her. She feels Chuck watching, and keeps her back to him. 

“You didn’t have to be so mean to her,” Dan says suddenly, shielding his eyes from the sun. 

“ _You_ don’t have to tell me that,” Blair says. “She’s _my_ best friend.” 

“ _Blair_.” 

She hates how disarming that is, the undertone of tenderness in only one syllable. He gives her a look, something between _Then act like it,_ and _She was mine too._

He pulls a cigarette from his coat pocket, sticking it in his mouth and lighting it silently. 

“You don’t smoke,” Blair states, watching him curiously. He shrugs.

“Picked it up in Italy.” 

She wants to rip the stupid thing from his mouth and crush it under her heel.

A breeze sweeps over them, causing Blair to take an instinctive step towards Dan. She brings her hands around herself, rubbing her arms. She watches his mouth, pressed firmly around the cigarette, thinks about his teeth on her collarbone, only hours earlier. She watches him bring his fingers up, thinks about them inside her. He lets out a bout of smoke, the breeze blowing it in the opposite direction.

“You don’t have a coat,” he says, still not looking at her. “Do you want mine?”

“ _No_ ,” she says pointedly. “I’m not cold. I’m just scared for Nate.” 

“He’s in a holding cell. They can’t rough him up in there.” 

“This isn’t _funny_. This will cost him his company.” 

“I know,” he says. “He’s my best friend.”

He lets out another bout of smoke, then places the cigarette back between his lips. She wants to rip the stupid thing from his mouth and kiss him. 

They’re back to the start, or not the start, just the beginning, the sneaking around. She was so afraid back then, that she would fall for him and it would ruin her life. And then she did, and it didn’t, but she ruined it anyways. 

Chuck strides around them, looks through Dan like he isn’t there. 

“The district attorney’s agreed to meet with me to discuss options,” he says. “Are you coming?”

 _This is a test_ , Blair thinks.

“I don’t know what help I would be,” she says, but it’s not defiant, it’s meek, it’s sincere. “I think I should stay here. With Serena.”

Dan tenses next to her, doesn’t bother moving away when he lets the smoke out. It clouds her vision, puts up a wall between her and Chuck. 

Chuck nods stiffly, then his eyes refocus, scrutinizing. She doesn’t have to follow his gaze to know he can see the bruises on Dan’s neck. He whips around, wind lifting his coat cartoonishly. 

Dan laughs, quick and bitter. 

“You’re like a little girl,” he says. “And him - he’s the fucking boogeyman.”

Blair turns back, taking shaky steps to where Serena slumps, and sits down quietly next to her, offers no solace. 

* * *

“Someone’s going to see us,” Blair says, voice levelled. “This will be all over Gossip Girl within the hour.”

“What the fuck am I even doing here,” Dan mutters, throwing the butt of his cigarette on the ground and stomping it out. 

“Get a fucking grip,” Blair says.

“If it was me in there, would you all be running around town?”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Serena chokes. “Can’t you two think about anyone but yourselves for a second?”

Dan inhales sharply, his stomach turning like his chair’s been kicked out from under him. 

“Family,” Serena says into her hands. “That’s bullshit.”

Dan takes a step away, then another, until he’s walked around the corner out of sight. 

“Throw it away,” he says over the line. “Just forget the whole fucking thing.”

“First of all, I’m not sure what has you so riled up but I cannot _wait_ to find out,” Georgina says, voice distant and crackling. “Second, I was going to call you when I got back from the Catskills but Signature Theatre wants to pick it up, and they asked if you wanted to direct.”

“If I - Why are you in the Catskills?”

“Because that’s what you do when you have so much money you don’t know what to do with it,” she says, then pauses and takes a loud slurp of something. “You produce plays and go to the mountains.” 

Before he can ask anymore questions, she jumps in,

“ _Scusi_ , Daniel, I have to go. We’ll talk when I’m back in the city.”

He smokes another cigarette, leaning his head back against the cold concrete wall. He’s sick and hungry and ashamed. _I fucking wish we were kids again._

When he was a kid, he wanted to be just like his dad. He hadn’t known, then, that this is what that meant. 

He discards the rest of his cigarette in a sea of butts on the sidewalk. When he comes back around, Howard stands with a hand on Blair’s shoulder. 

“They’re letting him out on bail,” Blair says without looking at him. “Captain is going to meet Chuck at the DA’s to see if they can get the charges dropped.” 

_Just like that,_ Dan thinks. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low so only she can hear. “I didn’t mean all that. I should go.”

“Yes you did,” she says plainly. “Don’t go. Nate will want you here when he gets out.”

Dan doesn’t think Nate cares all that much. And it’s not that he feels like he’s been proven wrong, when Nate walks out into the streaming daylight, looking around disconcertedly before exclaiming _Hey, brother!_ and wrapping him in a hug, but it does feel nice to not be completely right. 

After Nate offers to buy everyone a round of drinks, and Howard shuts him down, stuffs him into a town car, Serena waves a hand into the street and summons a cab. Dan opens the door for them, Blair stopping before getting in. 

“I’d do everything I could, if it was you instead of him,” she says, face turned away from him, voice almost lost in the wind. “But it never would be, because we’re not as stupid or careless as they are.”

“Definitely not careless,” he says, and when she doesn’t say anything, just ducks into the worn leather backseat, he closes the door. 

  
  


* * *

Blair stands at the top of the stairs, looking out into the room of people, all celebrating her, another trip around the sun that left her with burns. 

Serena had insisted on having a party, with carefully crafted drink menus and bubblegum pop blasting over the speakers, a guest list that packs the penthouse to the brim. 

There was nothing to celebrate, this Blair knew well, but she wasn’t going to deny her friends an opportunity to get raucously drunk and tell her they love her. Although looking around now, she doesn’t see many people that do love her. Even less that she loves back. 

The second weekend of December, Blair finds herself pressed into Nate’s side at the Men of the Year party. It’s strange, the flashing lights of the cameras, pearls draped around her neck, familiar but not, like drifting through a past life. She lets Nate do all the talking, because that’s what this is, rehabilitating the image of a gold-plated name, a name that means modern art and magnanimous awards, not wire fraud and _Van der Woodsen_. It’s not all one-sided, Blair letting her mother display her in the black sequins of her new collection, _Waldorf Designs_ two of the only words she touts all night. So there she is, a trophy Nate didn’t even want, a treaty her mother passively agreed to. 

She fills herself up with enough champagne to make her amiable, tips her head back easily, laughing at jokes Nate’s not making, every time a camera props itself in their path. 

She wanders off into the back of the room to take a breather, letting Nate fend for himself against socialites with fake smiles and rappers with gold chains. If it weren’t for the false lashes and thick powder and tacky gloss, she would rub her hands vigorously over her face, try and wake up from whatever strange dream sequence she’s stepped into. 

And then, from across the room, she sees him.

“Don’t tell me you’re on the list,” she says, sidling up next to him and trying for playful. He shrugs, leans his shoulder on the wall so he’s facing her.

“Nate invited me,” he says. “I wasn’t going to come.”

“What changed your mind?” 

The cut of his cheekbones are still visible in the shadows, his lips wet when he brings his glass away. 

“You know.”

“You didn’t come to my birthday,” she says, a little too earnest. 

“I didn’t think you’d want me there.”

“You were _invited_.”

He shrugs again.

“I assumed Serena invited me,” he takes the cocktail pick from his drink and slides the cherry from it slowly into his mouth. “ _Did_ you want me there?”

She doesn’t answer, watches him lick his lips.

“I can fuck you,” he says suddenly, voice low. “In the bathroom, if you want. Belated birthday gift.”

She laughs, completely hollow.

“You’re so drunk.”

“That’s true. You shouldn’t take advantage of me.”

The sentiment sends a shiver down her spine. She had forgotten that she wasn’t the only one who could be cruel.

“Get me another drink then.”

He does, spiced rum with soaked cherries, holiday bullshit she takes down all at once, chewing the cherries fast, heat spreading in her chest. He shifts uncomfortably next to her, Italian leather on his feet he never really broke in. 

He sips on his Manhattan, ice clinking in his glass. _My favourite drink,_ he used to say through wet kisses, _Tastes like you._

She doesn’t take his hand, but she leads him nonetheless, swinging the bathroom door open hastily. White powdered noses from the back corner look up in their direction, then back down without much care. 

She locks the stall, a large wooden cubicle which makes all this feel much more sophisticated than it should. She turns to him, letting out a long breath, and then she’s kissing him. The syrupy sweet of her cherries and the sting of his whiskey melt together, her fingers twisting in his almost-perfectly styled curls. He pins her up hard to the wall and she doesn’t fight it, gives in and backs down and spreads her legs for him.

“What do you want?” He mumbles into her hair, breath hot and sharp.

“Your mouth,” she says, already guiding his head down. “Use your mouth.”

He pushes her dress up, stockings down curtly, sequins scraping her skin. He runs his fingers over the reddening lines as he kneels, mumbling _Sorry_ , and she feels that pit in her stomach again. She makes desperate little noises, legs shaking on her too-high heels, aware of the people just outside. She should be embarrassed, she thinks, but she isn’t. He’s always made her feel just right. 

He comes back up, wiping his mouth with back of his hand, and she pulls him in by the neck, kissing him again. She gets hold of his belt, undoes it quickly, pulling his shirt out and running her fingers on the coarse hair above the waistband of his briefs. 

“I love you,” he says, like it only just came to him. He repeats it, _I love you_ , reminding himself. 

“Please fuck me,” she says, because she knows he’s always liked that. “ _Please_ , Dan.”

He mutters something under his breath, then presses his mouth against her collarbone. He’s still talking, but she coils her hands through his hair and keeps him there, so she can’t hear what he’s saying. 

He fights against her grip to pull back, nose on her cheek. 

“There’s no condom.”

“You can pull out,” she says, tugging down his pants and getting her hands around him, lifting her leg slightly to position him.

“Two thousand dollar suit I’m gonna get cum all over it.”

Her laugh turns to a sharp inhale when he enters her, her head snapping back against the shined wood wall. He reaches up, runs a hand over the back of her head, thumbs the spot that throbs. 

She hears someone laugh from the other side of the wall, shrill and not all there. He runs his tongue over her bottom lip, taking it between his teeth and biting softly, then a little harder, because he knows she’s always liked that. 

She comes with a noise trapped in her throat, bracing her hands on both sides of his face and opening her mouth over his, less of a kiss and more of a cry. She shivers as he pulls out, and he rubs her arms, up and down, like he’s trying to warm her up. She watches him as she works him with her hands, long lashes and blurry pink lips. 

He jerks against her, coming all over her fingers, and she can’t help but laugh a little, reaching past him for a roll of toilet paper. He laughs too, baring teeth, then looks down, poking his finger through a hole he’d torn in her stockings. 

“Hope these weren’t expensive.”

It only makes her laugh more, and for a moment it feels like before again. Like she never left. Like she never made the wrong choice. 

She fixes herself in her compact mirror, then drops it back in her purse. He cups her jaw suddenly, presses a soft kiss on her lips. 

“You go first. Nate’ll get you home safe.”

She wants to say thank you, thank you for understanding even though you shouldn’t, thank you for caring even though you shouldn’t, thank you for loving me even though you shouldn’t. But she settles for saying nothing, unlocking the stall and smiling at him over her shoulder.

  
  


She rests her head against the cool black out glass of the window, his words ringing through her head. He’d given her another chance to say it back, and she didn’t take it. When she was 17 she’d cried over Chuck doing the same to her. Maybe it wasn’t Serena that couldn’t grow up. Maybe it was her. 

Nate places his hand over hers. 

“You okay, B?”

She shifts to look at him, her first love, her first heartbreak. She smiles faintly. 

“Yeah,” she intertwines their fingers, squeezes his hand. “I’m alright.”

Three ice cubes in a glass of water, two aspirin, one shot of espresso on a small gold-rimmed plate. Blair’s go to since freshman year. It’s ritualistic, water, aspirin, espresso. Makeup wipes and mouthwash. Serena in her bed. She was always ready. 

“I think someone _Freaky Friday’ed_ us,” Blair says, picking up the espresso first, foregoing the aspirin and water. It was an unassuming joke, but the sentiment of it sets in too late. Serena doesn’t laugh. 

“Whatever Nate told you -“ 

“Nate and I aren’t talking,” Serena says. “Someone saw you and posted it on Gossip Girl. You and Dan.”

Blair leans her head back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. 

“I think I died,” she says. “I think I’m dead and I’m in some sort of limbo.” 

Serena doesn’t say anything, just taps her fingers on her bare knees. 

“You should talk to Nate,” Blair says, still looking up. “You wouldn’t have even enjoyed the -“

“This isn’t about me,” Serena interrupts again. “This is about you stringing Dan along. You can’t do that.” 

“You don’t even know what happened. You weren’t even _there_ because Nate was too -“ Blair stops herself, peeks down to see Serena with raised brows. 

“Continue. I dare you.”

Blair sighs, reaching for the aspirin and gulping it down. 

“Sorry, _sorry_. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Serena lets out a long breath, turning to look out the window. Snowflakes scatter down, disappearing on the glass like a magic trick. 

“You should leave Dan out of it until you do.” 

“Dan knows what he’s doing,” Blair says. “He always has.”

Serena runs a hand over the silk duvet cover, her nails bitten down to the skin. Somewhere outside, a car alarm goes off.

“That’s what you think,” Serena says.

“Right. Because you know him so much better than I do,” Blair says, less callous and more uneasy. Like she’s afraid that it’s true. Serena doesn’t say anything. The car alarm stops. 

“Dan sees all the faults in me,” Blair says, more to herself than to Serena. “Chuck only ever saw weaknesses.”

Serena looks back at her. Blair keeps her eyes on the snow, coming down harder now. 

“I understand more about you than you think. You just hate me too much to see it.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Serena stands, taking the small plate and the empty espresso cup from the table. “One is enough.”

Blair watches Nate, wearing a stupid hat, _two zero one three_ in cheap gold plastic, pour champagne into Serena’s mouth, a mist of bubbles disappearing around her glitter eyeshadow. She feels him before she sees him, appearing next to her like an apparition. 

“Got here just in time,” Dan mumbles, gesturing to the scene in front of them. He leans back against the wall, turning to look at her. “I was looking for you. I hate everyone here.”

Someone spills their drink next to them, Blair using it as an excuse to shift closer to him. 

“I heard your play got picked up,” the same way they hear everything about each other now. “Who would’ve thought you’d be the only one to not be a failure.”

He gives her a wry smile, not all there.

“There’s still time.”

“Georgina’s name came up. Does she have her claws in you again?” 

He sighs, shakes his head.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?”

She shrugs. She can’t, really.

“Speaking of _Georgina’s_ ,” Blair throws a sideways glance at a brunette who passes them by. “I think everyone else here hates me.”

Dan huffs, a half laugh against the rim of his glass. 

“Bloomberg? What’d you do to her?”

Blair looks out into the room, squinting from the strobe lights.

“I don’t remember. Probably what I always do. Hurt people for the hell of it,” she looks back up at him, his eyes dark. “And sometimes without ever meaning to.”

She glances at the sliding glass door to their right, sees that no one’s outside. 

“Do you want to get some air?” 

He looks hesitant for a moment, then nods, and they step out onto the balcony. The wind whips harsh around them, and she grips onto the cold railing to stop herself from putting her hands on him. The rain has stopped, but the air still feels damp, the distant sounds of partying crowds below. 

“You can smoke if you want,” she says, looking out over the city instead of at him. “I don’t mind.”

“I don’t smoke anymore.”

Glass shatters somewhere inside, followed by a tune of laughter, like something from a sitcom. 

“You gave it up? Just like that?”

Dan shrugs.

“Some things are easier than others.”

On the other side of the door, clumsy, overlapping shouts countdown the clock. Blair jumps a little at the first firework, even though she expected it, zipping up in the space between skyscrapers and bursting into a bath of glitter. It’s all a little too picturesque, like a scene in a movie they would’ve watched on a small screen in the living room of the loft. 

“It’s midnight,” she says. “Can I kiss you?” 

It’s a selfish question. He nods, a selfish answer. 

She leans up, he leans down, meeting in the middle. Kissing him will always feel right, she thinks. It’ll always feel new again. 

He opens his mouth, and she deepens the kiss, pressing her body up against his, her hands on his chest. He lets her have it, just for a moment, then pulls away. 

“I can’t keep doing this,” he says, words almost lost in the erupting of fireworks, the popping of corks, the drunken cheering, the drumming of her heart. “Not like this, Blair.”

He waits for a moment, his hand coming off the back of her neck to fix her necklace, a finger over the silver heart. A gift from her mother when she was ten years old, _Return to Tiffany’s, so I’ll always know where to find you when you get lost._ It made her feel so grown up, then. 

Dan looks back through the glass door. 

“We should go back inside, make sure Nate and Serena haven’t done anything stupid.”

She tries to smile, ducks her head so he won’t see her fail.

“We wouldn’t want that.”

* * *

January had passed in a cold, bleak procession, the same walk down Tenth to the theatre, the same cart-coffee, the same cracks in the sidewalk filled with icy sludge. The same walk now, keeping his eyes on the wrapper-plastered, chewed gum littered sidewalk, instead of at the various storefronts decorated in pink and red. 

He pulls open the door, the stiff heat from the lobby a shock to his system like it is every morning. They’re only weeks out from previews, and Dan feels aged, scratching at the growing stubble on his chin, his clothes artlessly rumpled, like one of his old professors, weary and disconnected. Someone, a stagehand or a technician, or something or other, asks him if he has plans tonight. He doesn’t, but he understands the real meaning behind the question. _Are you going to Chuck Bass’ party tonight?_

He turns his phone off, doesn’t turn it back on until after dinner, back at the loft, after rehearsals and a grocery run and a walk around the darkened streets, buying time. He scrolls through the photos, but he doesn’t see her, only Nate and Serena hanging off each other, plastered and kissing for the camera. 

He gives in. Lets the phone ring all the way through. Her voicemail is full. 

He pours whatever’s left of his Canadian Club into a glass, allows himself a single cigarette. It’s too cold, after having the window open, so he climbs into bed under the covers. She’d laugh at him if she could see him, a disenchanting cliché.

His phone vibrates. He answers on the first ring. 

“ _Rosemary’s Baby_ is on TV,” Blair says in lieu of a greeting. 

“I still don’t have one,” he says.

“I know,” her voice is close, but not clear. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s not even on. _Love Actually_ is.”

“I hate that movie,” he says, but she already knows that. 

“Just awful,” Blair says, and then she’s quiet for a moment. “I got a job. At the Met.”

“Wow,” he says. “That’s great.”

“Not really. I’m an assistant to an assistant.”

“You’ll work your way up,” he says. He thinks he can hear her smile. He hopes. 

“You should come by,” she says all of a sudden. His heart skips a beat, then, “There’s a Ken Price retrospective.”

Blair never cared for Ken Price. But Dan did. 

“I’ll try,” he says. “It’s hard to get away from work.”

“I forgot,” she says. “You’re the only one who’s career hasn’t completely deteriorated. All those wrongs eventually make a right.”

“Stop that,” he says, more serious than he meant to. She’s got that teasing spark back in her voice. He can’t ruin this. “You’re twenty two. You have time.”

She goes quiet. The line crackles, like she’s shifting. He wonders if she’s lying in bed too.

“Are you there?” She asks softly. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have called.”

“I called you first,” he says, then, because he can’t help himself either, “I miss my best friend.” 

She lets out a shaky breath. Or maybe it’s just the connection. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Dan.”

She hangs up before he can reply. 

The morning after press night, Dan flips through the New York Times. 

_Lily Rhodes’ step-son (not that one, the NYT bestselling one) Daniel Humphrey unveils new production with Signature Theatre Company, the first play from a promising young writer..._

He throws it onto the ground, letting the pages flutter open and bend. Then he picks it back up, crumpling in his tight grip, and does the crossword on the back. 

Serena stops him outside the bar before getting in a cab. 

“She wanted to be here,” she says, in a voice that tells him she’s lying. “Something came up.”

Her eyes are rimmed red. She’d been crying during the show. 

She surges forward unexpectedly, wrapping her arms around his neck. She smells familiar, like an old favourite book, her breath sharp with tequila. 

“I’ll make sure she comes.”

The last night of opening week, he gets a tap on the shoulder.

“You wanted to be notified if Miss Blair Waldorf gave her name at the door?”


	3. the things that have passed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve given much meaning to my little life.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is: the ending we deserved. Writing this fic truly broke my brain, so I hope you all enjoy.  
> Chapter title from Wasteland, Baby! by Hozier

She shifts in the slightly uncomfortable seats, fidgeting with her hands, her hat, her skirt. The lights flicker, then dim, then turn completely off, casting the room in darkness, the whispers of the crowd around her ceasing all at once. It’s so quiet, for those few moments, she feels like there’s a microphone on her chest, broadcasting the beating of her heart through the theatre. 

The silence is replaced by soft music, quiet at first, the sound building up until it fills the room. 

_Il est entré dans mon cœur / Une part de bonheur / Dont je connais la cause._

The red velvet draws back, the lights behind it so bright Blair has to adjust her eyes. 

A man in rusted silver armour stands in the middle of the stage. He’s handsome in the dull way most actors are handsome, his hair curling around his eyes. He looks up to the top of a narrow staircase. 

A woman in a white muslin descends down, her dark hair braided around her head like a crown. 

_I’ve come to take you away,_ the man in silver says. 

_Sweep me off my feet?_ She chimes, her bare feet hopping off the last step and onto the stage floor without much of a sound. 

_If only,_ the man says. _My lady, it is time._

A recording, the voice of the man, comes through, recounting the story of how he came to serve the princess, and in turn for his service, she gave him her friendship. He recalls a memory, and under the dim stage lights, and the twinkling of mechanic stars, the two of them lay side by side. The princess tells him she has accepted the proposal of an Emperor of another great land, much greater than the one she occupies now. She says that, as his last act of service, the knight may escort her there, under one condition. _You do not turn around when you leave._

The knight sits at the front of a prop carriage, the girl behind him, her face covered in a sheer white veil, her muslin replaced by a pink dress with a high lace neck.

 _You mustn’t sulk_ , the man calls from over his shoulder. _You’ll have the rest of your life to sulk._

 _You must watch the way you speak to me,_ the girl says. _I could have off with your head._

 _Isn’t that why you like me, princess?_ The man says. _Because I know the consequences, and walk the line anyway?_

 _You’ve said that before,_ she says. _When we first met._

_I remember, my lady._

_I said, you cannot fall in love with me, I will not allow it. And you said, I know the consequences, and I’ll -_

_Walk the line anyway_ , the knight finishes. _Yes, my lady, I remember._

A silence stretches across the stage. 

_You didn’t listen to me_ , she says. 

_No_ , he says, _no, I did not._

_We’re losing light, my lady, we should sleep now, and ride again at dawn._

The knight removes the chest and shoulder pieces of his armour, setting himself down at the trunk of a tree. 

_Why mustn’t I turn?_ He asks, without looking up. 

_Because I could not bear it,_ she says. _I could not bear to think I made the wrong choice._

 _It wasn’t much of a choice,_ he says. _I knew the consequences, I crossed the line anyway._

He leans his head back against the tree, closing his eyes. 

The princess takes a careful step out of the carriage and onto the ground, leaning over the knight. She regards him for a moment, then presses a kiss to his lips. His eyes open. 

_I didn’t mean to wake you_ , she says.

 _Oh, but you did_ , he says, _long before any of this._

She kisses him again, laying herself onto the ground next to him.

_I did not quite like the man I was before I came to serve you. You’ve given much meaning to my little life._

_But now you will never see me again,_ she says. 

_I will still love you so_ , he says. 

_One day it will vanish_ , she says, _and it will be like it was never there._

_I’ll never love another. It is no use pretending that I will._

_Not even if it would make me feel better?_

_Love turns men to beasts,_ he says. _But it has only made me a coward._

 _We only have tonight_ , she says. 

_One night more than I ever thought we’d have,_ he says. 

The lights go down.

When the stage lights up again, signalling morning, they stand under the tree.

 _You’re right in front of me, and yet I miss you already,_ she says. _Is this how life is to be for me, from now on?_

 _No_ , he says, _you mustn’t miss me. I’ll be with you always._

They reach the spot of departure, the land of the Emperor, the knight leading the princess to where guards are stationed at one end of the stage. 

The man turns, taking steps away, and under the bright white lights, his tears streak down his face. The princess holds out her hand, almost close enough to touch the man, but still too far. 

_My love,_ she says. 

The man stops. 

_My love_ , she says again.

The man turns around, and the curtains close. 

Blair wipes her hands across her cheeks, hot with tears, stripes of mascara coming away on her fingers. She steps into the harsh light of the theatre restroom, looking at her reflection in the mirror. 

* * *

He leans against the bar, nursing a drink, a damp ring on the wooden surface under his glass. Her hand comes on his shoulder. She’s not wearing any makeup on her eyes, but the gloss on her lips catches the light. 

She gestures to his drink, and the bartender pours one for her, drops in a cherry. Dan tells him to put it on the tab. 

“A tab and a beard,” she says. “Indulging in the wretched artist stereotype I see.”

He laughs against his glass, not looking at her straight on. 

“What did you think?”

She tilts her head, like she’s considering the question. 

“I liked the pre show music.”

“I know,” he says. 

“The dress was nice. The pink one. Better than the one you got me.”

“That’s because I didn’t pick it out.”

She places her glass on the bar, a sticky mark around the rim. 

“Making yourself the knight in shining armour was quite the statement.”

He hums, nodding.

“I’m awfully selfish.”

“We all are,” she says, watching the ice melt in her glass. “Maybe that’s what drew us together.”

She brings the glass back up, tips the cherry into her mouth, sucks on it slowly.

“Serena packed the rest of her things yesterday,” she says, and he knows this, too, and she knows that he does. He runs a finger along a crack in the wooden bar, and it’s like he can feel his pulse beating in each fingertip. 

“I could never live in Bryant Park,” she says, breaking the silence. “But at least Nate’s getting out of that stupid hotel.”

Dan laughs, and then he doesn’t. She’s looking at him hard under the dim light. 

“It won’t last,” she says. “There’s still a lot of growing up to do.”

Dan tries to shrug, but his shoulders feel heavy. 

“Stupid and careless,” he says. 

She reaches up and kisses him, a soft press to the side of his mouth. He braces a hand on her shoulder, like the very first time.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“So have you.”

He lets out a long breath. She’s so close, it makes her hair flutter. 

“This doesn’t feel right,” he says. 

Her brows furrow, lips pouting a little. 

”Why are you like this? This is a moment, Dan.” 

He shakes his head, rubs a thumb over the fabric on her shoulder. 

“It was a moment that night, too,” he says. “At the loft. I should’ve - we should talk about this.”

“Right,” she says. “Because there’s still something left to say.”

“I didn’t - I don’t want you to say anything you don’t mean.”

Her face softens. 

“I should go,” she says. “Can you get me a cab?”

He ducks his head, nods slightly. She follows him out onto the curb, a light rain coming down damp on their skin.

She doesn’t look at him as she gets in, giving the driver the address to the penthouse. He doesn’t look at her as he turns away, closing the door.

“Dan?” 

She peers out of the half-open window.

“I love you.”

The cab pulls out, blending into the traffic on the road.

* * *

He’s sleepy-eyed when he opens the door. It’s barely dawn. She wanted to beat the traffic. 

“You’re here,” he says, but it sounds more like a question. 

“I’m here,” she says. “You wanted to talk.“

He just looks at her for a moment, then nods, moves aside to let her in. There’s a bouquet of flowers in a vase on the kitchen counter, pink, yellow, and white. 

Dan takes a seat on a stool at the kitchen island, pulling the one next to it out with his foot and gesturing for her to sit down. She does, dropping her bag on the floor, the noise making her wince. She looks up at him, knows he’s thinking the same thing. 

“I left that night because I knew you would want to talk about it. And I just couldn’t.”

“You didn’t really leave,” he says lightheartedly. “Nate kinda fucked that up for you.”

She looks past him. Pink, yellow, and white. 

“But I did leave you, in the summer. I did go back to Chuck.”

She feels him tense, his knee bumping hers. On the shelf above the sink, she studies the chips along the rims of white mugs.

“Do you remember the night of Dorota’s wedding?”

“Sure,” he says. “Faintly.”

The vase, she notices, is cracked as well. Along the top, if you were to fill it up with water all the way, it would spill out. She’s not sure why she’s thinking of this now, the water filling up and spilling out and in turn the flowers wilting. Dan hasn’t said anything else, only breaths quietly and watches her. Waits for her to continue.

“She said... she said that she wanted me to find real love. But I thought love was supposed to hurt. So I didn’t think what I felt for you could be real,”

She takes his hand, tracing her finger on his palm, along his heart line. 

“And that night you said that I deserved to be with someone who made me happy. Before I... before I left I told my mother that you made me feel strong and safe. I’d never felt that before. I didn’t know what to do with it,”

Sunlight casts down on the counter, yellow streaks with dust dancing in the air. Illuminating all the chips, cracks, and dents in this old home. Dan is sentimental, keeps broken things, whereas she would’ve thrown them out. 

“So I... went back to Chuck. Because I couldn’t handle it... I didn’t have it in me. I had to let Chuck go to make room for myself,”

She looks at him looking at her. Long lashes, pink lips. 

“And I did. And I’m here now. And I love you.”

He brings his hand to her face, running his thumb along her cheekbone. She leans into the touch, and he smiles.

“I might need a little more convincing,” he says, voice soft and hushed, like he’ll wake the birds if he speaks any louder, like he’ll wake himself.

“You can never let a moment just be a moment, can you?”

She doesn’t see him smile then, because he’s off his chair and braced over hers, kissing her. She wraps her fingers in the old, worn fabric of his t-shirt. There’s a hole at the bottom, at the seam. She sticks her finger in it, tickles the skin of his side. 

She pulls away, bumping her nose on his. 

“Dan?”

“Hmm?”

“You need to brush your teeth.”

He laughs against her cheek, pulling her up by the arms. Then he’s scooping her up, setting her on the kitchen island. Her stomach flips, he’s always done that, picked her up like it was nothing, like she was inconsequential weight to him. But when he splays his hands out on her thighs, kisses carefully along her collarbone, presses the tips of his fingers onto the tips of hers, she knows it’s the opposite. 

She’d done this to him, and he’d done it to her back.

* * *

  
  


“I saw it twice and I still don’t understand it,” Nate says through a mouthful of blueberries. The door of the café opens, letting the spring breeze in. He takes a sip of his mimosa, “Did they end up together in the end or not?”

Dan smiles, nudges her shoulder. She leans into him. 

“Yeah,” Dan says. “I guess they did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Wasteland, Baby! by Hozier  
> Chapter title from False God by Taylor Swift


End file.
